


The Thing with Feathers

by chucks_prophet



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Cleaning to Cope, Diary/Journal, F/M, Hopeless Sam Winchester, John's Journal, Love Confessions, M/M, Post-Episode: s15e09 The Trap, Sad Sam Winchester, Some Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-10
Updated: 2020-02-10
Packaged: 2021-02-27 20:35:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22641940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chucks_prophet/pseuds/chucks_prophet
Summary: "I doubt Cas is going anywhere anytime soon because he's not dumb enough to make a deal with evil. He's an angel. And my best friend.And the guy I inexplicably fell in love with. He's just one of those many regrets.Jesus, this is getting lengthy. What are you, my priest?Anyway, whoever you are, just like you would sex, shoot first, ask questions later, and most importantly, fight with protection. I'll give you an updated list of weapons that can be used to harm most, if not all, monsters.Later."- Dean Winchester, entry #1, 1.31.2020.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester, Eileen Leahy/Sam Winchester
Kudos: 20





	The Thing with Feathers

**Author's Note:**

> Big thank you, again, to my editor writingmyowndestiel, or, as I know them IRL, Jami. <3

The Thing with Feathers

_“Hope” is the thing with feathers -_

_That perches in the soul -_

_And sings the tune without the words -_

_And never stops - at all –_

Sam didn’t intend on doing spring cleaning a month early, but here he is—with what little hope he has left to make this place look like an upscale Airbnb—cleaning out the Bunker.

Cleaning the kitchen turns up fruitless—literally and metaphorically, Sam has to hide the fruit from Dean’s line of vision or he’ll toss them without second thought. _“Dean! Stop throwing away my fruit!”, “It’s compost, Johnny Appleseed. It’ll grow back into another apple in no time.”_

But if he’s being honest with himself… this whole losing hope thing is really affecting him in more ways than just this whole Killing the Almighty thing. He’s been pushing himself to cook more since Eileen left, in hopes of renewing the feeling of cooking with her. That normalcy, the thing he ditched fifteen years ago for sleazy motels and an estranged brother.

Instead, scrubbing the grease off the burner reminded him of bumping into Eileen while she made bacon. Soaking the drip pans to rid stubborn crumbs reminded him of the pancake batter that somehow, in his post-drunken stupor, slipped off the pan and through the burner, filling the confined space with the smell of burnt flour. Eileen had laughed at him, moving the pan to the back burner, and directed him to the pan cooking the eggs. _“Just chop up the eggs. **Don’t** flip them.” _

It was different with Eileen. With Amelia, they were both a mess. They just embraced it, for better or for worse. With Eileen, she motivates him to be better because she believes he can be better. Without that sort of person around him, he feels even more hopeless.

So, should he be gone too in the next couple hours, he writes a note to Dean to clean the burner before he cooks his supposedly famous “Meat Man” burgers. (They are really good, but Sam’s not gonna tell him that.)

Then, he attempts to tackle the library, which can always use a bit of tidying. Apparently the Men of Letters thought so highly of themselves they didn’t need the Dewey Decimal System.

But that too brings back memories. Take _Volume III_ of _Intersex Wendigos,_ which is sitting on its spine in the middle of the second shelf after Sam threw it there—immediately cringing doing so because these books are older than his family history of liver disease—when Eileen walked in on him. He tried playing it off like he was nonchalantly leaning against a bookshelf—as intellectuals do—but when she found an opening underneath the oh-so-casual fold of his arm, her face scrunched up in question.

Raising both his hands, he signed, _Research,_ with a stilled neutral expression.

Instead of retorting with something smart like Dean would’ve, Eileen asked, “How were volumes I and II?”

Sam laughed. “A bit slow,” he had replied, signing slow with the brush of his left fingers atop his right hand. “And slightly offensive. But otherwise, an interesting read.”

Yeah, Sam just turns the book on its side, slips it back into the shelf, and calls it clean.

Until he comes across another familiar cover on the top shelf. Dad’s journal.

He can’t imagine Castiel has much use for it—being a celestial being comes with the literal God-given knowledge of the entire universe—so Dean had to have referenced it recently.

He brushes the dust off the weathered cover and flips through the pages. Minus ink-stamped fingerprints from newspaper clippings Sam haphazardly taped on top of old ones and abstract pen markings from dosing off in the passenger’s seat of the Impala during particularly rocky roads, everything seems intact.

Until he comes across the last entry. It’s fresh, and not nearly as neat as John’s handwriting.

_1.31.2020_

_Hey, it's Dean. John’s older, handsomer son._

_I'm not really sure who'll be reading this, since our bloodline's a little limited. Then again, somehow the Winchester family name spans across blood to many unlucky sons a bitches._

_That being said, sorry you had the unfortunate luck of running across this thing. Because that probably means you've sold your soul, been possessed, or - if you're lucky - pissed off an ancient cosmic being._

_Welcome to the family._

_Since my dad, John, covered the bases on the first two things, I'll dive a little deeper into the third. You know, in case God in your time is still swinging his Almighty Dick._

_I honestly don't even know where to start. Most things can be killed - or even just stunted - by silver, iron, salt, fire, or decapitation. (A bad day if it's all five.) Even Leviathan has their weakness. But God is... well, God. Not even The Colt can stop him (believe me, we tried)._

_Supposedly there's this death flower that can trap him under the right circumstances. (I say supposedly because that was a bust too.) Conveniently, it's only found in Purgatory, which is the place where monsters go when they die. The only way a human can enter the realm is through a reaper or an archangel with enough pent-up daddy issues who can summon a portal._

_Or exploding Dick, but... yeah, I'd rather not get into that one._

_The other thing is not to lose hope. And no, I didn't quote that from a Hallmark card, I mean literally, don't lose hope. It's God's weakness, one of the few we've found. Which, I know, is easier said than done in our line of work. My brother Sam lost hope after God Perception-ed him. So now it's my turn to shoulder the burden._

_Whoopee._

_To be honest, I was never hopeful before all this God crap. I've always seen life as a one-way tunnel. You either run towards the light at full-speed or make a slow crawl towards it._

_I used to be able to laugh about it all. Just how grim life is. Because I didn't care whether I lived or died. I only cared where my next kill was coming from. I was like James Dean, except I rebelled with a cause and that was for hunting._

_But now... now I care about living. And that scares the shit out of me. I care about a happy ending._

_I'm not asking for a fairytale. Hell, I'm not even asking for normal. I'm just asking for someone in this family to die of natural causes._

_There are so many things left unsaid... so many things I wish I'd done sooner. My list of regrets are piling up quicker than all these fast-food wrappers mounting around my room._

_I doubt Cas is going anywhere anytime soon because he's not dumb enough to make a deal with evil. He's an angel. And my best friend._

_And the guy I inexplicably fell in love with. He's just one of those many regrets._

_Jesus, this is getting lengthy. What are you, my priest?_

_Anyway, whoever you are, just like you would sex, shoot first, ask questions later, and most importantly, fight with protection. I'll give you an updated list of weapons that can be used to harm most, if not all, monsters._

_Later._

Sam flips the page. And then the one after that. Nothing.

But he does get an incoming text from Dean.

**Heading home. There was a sale on pork rinds. 6:05pm**

Sam slides his phone in his pocket again and closes the book, but not with finality. After he slides it back into the shelf, he thumbs through the archive. There’s an even dustier book on the top shelf, sixty-fourth from the right. _Introduction to Metaphysical Soundwaves and How to Understand Them._

It’s not the title that’s important. It’s what’s on page 278—Steve McQueen’s racing number for the ISDT trials in 1964—that Sam needs.

He powers on Dean’s emergency burner until the home screen lights up. Then, opening messaging, he crafts a new text: **Sam’s in trouble. Come ASAP.** **6:11pm**

Sam hits send, waiting for the alert ‘Message sent to Cass’ before heading back into the kitchen. He grabs the legal pad from the counter and writes another note. This time, it’s from him, addressed to Dean:

_Went out for a walk. Be back soon._

Just because Sam’s love life is on hold doesn’t mean his brother’s has to be too. Dean’s waited long enough.

With any luck, this’ll bring his brother and Cas together once and for all.

And who knows, maybe it’ll restore his hope for the future again.

_And sweetest - in the Gale - is heard -_

_And sore must be the storm -_

_That could abash the little Bird_

_That kept so many warm -_

_I’ve heard it in the chillest land -_

_And on the strangest Sea -_

_Yet - never - in Extremity,_

_It asked a crumb - of me._

\- “Hope” is the thing with feathers by Emily Dickinson

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: I actually recently got a tattoo based off this poem in Jared's handwriting. I feel like it suits Sam really well at the moment. Thanks for reading! <3


End file.
